The dehorning went on.  Half a dozen more bleeding steers had been turned out before Scott, weary, gaunt, haggard beyond words, leading an emaciated young bull, drew rein beside the smaller corral.  The roping came to a pause.  John twisted a lariat round the neck of a steer he was working on and led it to the fence.  The others followed.

“Well, why the committee of welcome?” asked Scott hoarsely.  His bloodshot eyes turned from one to another.

“Where’d you find the bull, Scott?” asked John.

“First located him on Fire Mesa.  Been round about considerable since.”

“Whose bull is it now?” Charleton Falkner pushed Democrat toward the fence.

“Mine!” Scott spoke shortly, his freckled face unmoved.

“Do you think it was worth the price?” demanded Spencer.

Scott looked searchingly at the crowd before him.  The steer John was holding had been dehorned but not seared.  The blood had run down the brute’s white face and formed a crimson icicle on its under lip.  John had run his fingers through his ashen hair, leaving it blood-smeared.  Charleton was lighting a blood-stained cigarette with the hot searing-iron.  Judith pounded her half-frozen ringers together.

“What price did I pay?” asked Scott.

“Doug,” commanded John, “you tell your story.”

Douglas, with considerable embarrassment and assisted by Judith, told of their trip with the mail stage.  Scott listened with little apparent interest.  He said nothing when the story was done.

“It’s like this, Scott,” said John.  “It looks like you killed him.  You’ve got a bad temper.  So had Oscar.  You fought for over a year about that fool bull, first one of you branding it, then the other.  You’re young and you’d better give yourself up.  You’ll stand a better chance.”

“Go ahead, Scott!” cried Judith.  “I’ll stand your friend like you did mine when I rode old Oscar’s milch cow ’most to death!”

“Shut up, Jude!” exclaimed Douglas.

“Go ahead, Scott,” John half smiled.  “You needn’t worry.  You have a friend!”

“A friend won’t do him much good, if he’s guilty,” grunted Charleton Falkner.

“Anybody’s better off for at least one friend,” repeated Judith stoutly.  “Darn it!  All of you picking on poor old Scott!”

“Lean on me, Grandpa!” piped Jimmy Day.

Scott’s haggard eyes focused on Judith.  “I’ll hold you to that, Jude!  By God, you’re the only white man in the valley!  I came in to give myself up, Jude.  The cold got me.  I shot him, after he’d rebranded the bull before my eyes and after he’d given me this.”

He ripped open his mackinaw and shirt and tore a rag from his shoulder, disclosing a vivid wound.  “I ain’t the only one that’s quick on the trigger!”

There was a quick murmur among the riders.  John and Charleton, the oldest men in the group, looked at each other.

“Charleton, you and Jimmy Day ride to Scott’s house with him,” said John.  “I’ll go to the house and telephone to the sheriff.”  He mounted and rode off.